


we're only at home when we're on the run

by sodium_amytal



Category: Rush (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:36:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodium_amytal/pseuds/sodium_amytal
Summary: (AU. 1974.) John seems entirely unaffected that Alex has killed someone. He didn’t panic when he saw the blood spattered over Alex’s face and hands, the red soaked through the jeans and frilly cream-colored blouse Alex burned before they left. When he saw the huge finger-shaped bruises around Alex’s wrists, heard Alex say, “We have to leave,” through the noiseless screams and sobs fighting their way out of his throat, John took it upon himself to destroy the evidence.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Illustrations** : http://farewelltokings.tumblr.com/post/152079855836

 

_They travel in the time of the prophets_

_On a desert highway straight to the heart of the sun_

_Like lovers and heroes, and the restless part of everyone_

_We're only at home when we're on the run_

* * *

"How 'bout some waffles with that syrup?"

Alex glances up from his plate. John's smirking at him, amused by the ocean of maple syrup Alex has absentmindedly poured over his pecan waffles.

"Sorry," Alex says, his mouth twitching into a meager attempt at a smile. He sets the syrup jug aside. He isn't hungry, hasn't been since he killed a man four hours ago. But John insisted they stop driving for the night to find a meal and a warm bed, so Alex cuts the waffles into meticulously small pieces with his fork.

They're in a truck stop diner just outside of Toronto. The clock on the wall reads 1:54 a.m. Aside from a burly man in overalls seated at the counter reading a newspaper, they are the only patrons here. Hash browns sizzle on the grill. The air smells like frying bacon, eggs, and grease, a trifecta of which John's currently stuffing into his mouth.

John seems entirely unaffected that Alex has killed someone. He didn't panic when he saw the blood spattered over Alex's face and hands, the red soaked through the jeans and frilly cream-colored blouse Alex burned before they left. When he saw the huge finger-shaped bruises around Alex's wrists, heard Alex say, "We have to leave," through the noiseless screams and sobs fighting their way out of his throat, John took it upon himself to destroy the evidence.

Alex lifts the fork to his mouth. He showered at their apartment, but he can still see the thin lines of blood caked around his fingernails. He forces himself to eat, ignoring the nauseous twist in his stomach.

"Where to in the morning?" John asks.

Alex shrugs his shoulders. He chews slowly, drawing out his response time. "I don't know. Somewhere else."

John bites off a chunk of bacon. "How 'bout the very edge of Quebec? By the gulf? It's not too crowded. And the view would be nice. It's pretty far from here."

"Not far enough," Alex murmurs. "How about Mexico?"

John laughs. "You don't even know French. Spanish might as well be Chinese to you."

"Just add 'el' in front of everything, right? El waffle. El syrup. I got this."

Of course Alex would use his sense of humor to deflect and distract himself from the horror show his life has become.

John chuckles. "I think it's a bit more complicated than that."

"Alaska?"

"Shit, you're serious, huh? Okay..." John digs into his jeans' pocket and withdraws a 25-cent coin. "Heads or tails?"

Alex plays along. "Tails."

John flips the coin. It spins again and again in the air before dropping onto the speckled linoleum tabletop. John looks at the result and smiles at him. "Guess we're going to Alaska."

* * *

_Red._

_Everything is red._

_Blood spits from the man's neck, from the cracks between his fingers when he realizes what's happened to him. Alex is covered in it, his skin and clothes sticky warm, droplets of blood spattering across his face and into his open mouth. Alex gags, the cloying smell of it clinging to the back of his throat._

_The man clutches his neck to ebb the flow, but it's not stopping. Blood pours out of the slash in his throat like oil, spurting in wild gushes with each heartbeat. He crumples to the floor of the van and coughs out raspy, wet noises cut through with curses as he struggles for air._

_Alex scrambles away, his hands and boots slipping and skidding in the sticky red mess. But he can't get away from it, even as his back bumps against the side of the van. The blood soaks through his jeans, oozing toward him in a sluggish pool. Alex feels like he's drowning in the wet stench of it._

_His pocket knife lies on the van floor, its blade splashed with crimson. Alex doesn't want to be anywhere near it, but he shouldn't leave it here. Less evidence tying him to the scene. He reaches out a shaking hand and grabs the knife. It takes him a few tries to get the blade sheathed, because his fingers keep slipping off the release. He stuffs the knife into his pocket._

_Alex risks a glance at the man lying in front of him. He's stopped moving. His throat is slit like a grisly haunted house prop. His eyes are still open but dead as glass._

_Get out of the van._

_Alex clambers to the back door, wipes his gory hands on his jeans, and tries the handle. The door bursts open, and he breathes in the fresh air with frantic gasps._

_Where the fuck is John?_

_Alex crawls out of the van and shuts the door behind him, obscuring the bloody scene from any wandering eyes. On rubbery legs, with slick slime oozing down the inside of his thighs, Alex flees the alley._

* * *

The nightmare jerks Alex awake, his heart still pounding from the vivid memory. It takes him a moment to remember they're not home, safe in their own bed, but cloistered in a cheap motel somewhere in Barrie. The moonlight outlines John's face while he sleeps, and Alex admires the softness of his features, envies how it must feel to be untouched by any of this.

The coffee Alex drank with dinner presses insistently at his bladder. He slides out of bed, careful not to disturb John, and tiptoes to the bathroom on scratchy carpet. When Alex is finished, John's sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"You okay?" John asks, slurred and sleepy.

 _I'm never gonna fucking be okay,_ Alex thinks, but he doesn't want to throw John's concern back in his face. John has sacrificed his life and his future to be here.

Alex doesn't know how to answer that question, so he avoids it. "You weren't s'posed to let me fall asleep," he says, crawling into the warm bed alongside him.

"I thought the coffee'd keep you awake." John drapes an arm over Alex's waist and draws him closer.

"Just made me have to pee." Alex sighs, settling into the comfortable, familiar warmth of John's embrace. Sleep is the last thing Alex wants, but his body needs it too badly to resist. His eyelids slide closed for a moment before he blinks himself awake.

John tucks a piece of Alex's hair behind his ear. "Go on and sleep. It's been a long day."

"It's all I see when I close my eyes."

"But it's over. You survived. It can't hurt you again."

"Imagine reliving the worst moments of your life every time you fall asleep. And you don't know it's a dream, because you never know when you're dreaming, and everything is so vivid and real that it _can't_ be a dream."

John's brow creases in distress, like he knows he's got no idea what Alex is going through and doesn't have the slightest clue how to help. Alex tries to imagine what it might be like if their situations were reversed, the heartbreaking inability to do a goddamn thing to help the person you love.

"When you wake up, I'll be here," John says after a long moment, perhaps spent contemplating the right words to say. Alex isn't sure there are any right words, but he appreciates the effort.

Alex yawns, unable to fight the way his eyelids want to slam shut. He closes his eyes, and sleep is on him like shrinkwrap.

* * *

The next morning, while John drives them through the yellow-orange of the early morning, Alex thinks. Was all of this his fault? The horrifying result of something he did or didn't do? Should he have cut his hair, conformed to society's template of what a man should look like? Maybe he shouldn't have worn such tight, "girly" clothes or smiled so much on stage. Maybe he shouldn't have gone in that bastard's van after the show under the lure of good weed.

Or maybe the fucker shouldn't have violated him.

Familiar—or perhaps uncomfortable—with Alex's sulky silence, John turns down the radio. "None of this is your fault," he says, like he knows how much it's tearing Alex up, how badly Alex needs to hear that. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I killed someone."

"In self-defense. He's lucky you took him out, 'cause I would'a mailed him to his family in fucking pieces."

John's kind of sexy when he's angry. That's not the type of thing Alex should be turned on by—especially now—but there it is.

Alex leans his head on the window. The glass is cool on his scalp. He tries not to think about how their future plans have been put on indefinite hold now. They were going to be rock stars, but now they'll have to spend the next couple months or even years lying low and staying under the radar.

Maybe a "normal" life won't be so bad. They could move to Alaska, and Alex could become a chef, working out of a cozy cabin-turned-restaurant, and John would be a fisherman or own a store that sells outdoors-y gear. They would have two big, fluffy dogs—one Malamute and one Samoyed—who'd greet them with wagging tails and tongues, and the dogs wouldn't give a damn about Alex's past, only that he feeds and walks them and lets them sleep in the bed.

"What're you thinking about?" John asks, his head turned slightly to catch a glimpse of Alex's expression. "That's the first smile I've seen from you lately."

Alex tells him.

"I dunno, man. Two dogs? That sounds like a lot."

Alex chuckles a soft sound that surprises him, and John goes all smirky, thrilled to have made him smile.

* * *

They stop in Coldwater to load up on supplies. Alex fills the cart with salty and sweet snacks, while John adds basic necessities and six-packs of beer. Passing through aisles stocked with fresh produce and slabs of meat makes Alex yearn for the normalcy he'd had just two days ago, preparing decadent meals for himself and John.

The supermarket is bleached-white from too-bright bulbs. It's the middle of summer, near the end of July, and Alex feels out of place wearing long sleeves to hide his bruises. He thinks everyone is staring at him, that his victimization gives off a visible aura of damage.

Alex doesn't know when they'll make it to Alaska, but he's already getting restless without a hobby to distract himself. He needs something to divert his attention from his thoughts, the endless spool of worries unraveling in his mind. Because Alaska might not be a viable home. They could run into trouble at the border if Alex has already been identified as a suspect in the murder. Alex can't think of anyplace safe on Canadian soil, but he doesn't want a lifetime of midnight stops for eggs and pancakes either.

"Since we'll be passing through, you wanna drop in and see your parents?" John asks, adding some soda to the cart.

Alex lifts an eyebrow. "Should you be drinking that?"

"Don't be silly. This is for you. The beer's for me." John's giving him an insistent look, so Alex doubts he can wriggle out of answering the question.

"I want to, but it might not be a good idea."

Alex's parents moved back to Fernie, British Columbia—his birthplace—a year ago. Though he dated John throughout high school, Alex kept his homosexuality under wraps, so how his parents will react is a bit of a question mark. He doesn't think they're cruel enough to blame him for his own assault, but he doesn't have any proof that they're _not_ , since the topic never came up.

"You think they'll freak out about us?" John wonders.

"Well, that, and the other thing." Put lightly. Alex lowers his voice. "And if the cops can't find me, the first place they'll look is my parents'."

"I can't imagine your folks would give you up. You're their kid. And if they knew what happened—"

"No. I don't wanna talk about it." Alex chews his lower lip. "I can't tell them."

"Maybe not now. But by the time we get there..." John studies Alex's face. "I think it would be a good idea to drop by, at least. But we don't have to. We'll drive by their house, and if you're not feeling up to it, then we'll keep going."

Alex considers this. He's torn between craving the comfort and reassurance of his parents and wanting to withdraw from the world. But it hasn't even been twenty-four hours since the attack. Maybe when more time has passed he'll have a clearer head. At least John is giving him a choice.

"Okay," Alex says. "We can do that. I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

"Don't worry about me. I'm here to give you whatever you need." John reaches out to clap him on the shoulder but pulls back, as though uncertain if he's allowed to touch Alex anymore. Or maybe he's hesitant because they're in public. Either way, Alex feels sick and saddened as they roll into an open checkout lane.

As he's digging through his jeans for the money, his shirt sleeve is pushed up just enough to expose the purple bruises around his wrist. He hands the cashier twenty-one dollars and twelve cents, and he sees her gaze drawn to the blemishes. Alex dreads what thoughts she might be having at the sight of him and John, of the bruises and Alex's cowed, meek demeanor.

"God bless," she says.

Alex smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

_God's got nothing to do with this._

* * *

They stop at a motel in Sudbury for the night after a lackluster dinner at a Chinese buffet. Alex showers first while John settles into the room and takes his insulin. Under the hot spray, the insanity of the last two days takes hold, and Alex finds himself sitting in the shower basin shaking and sobbing, his meager reserves of mental repression melting like ice.

Why the fuck did this happen to him? No one deserves this.

Shitty things happen to good people. Alex had a close friend, Geddy, whose parents met in a German concentration camp during World War II. They were good, honest people who suffered greatly for no reason. Alex doesn't believe in God or karma or anything that suggests the universe is just. He has seen and heard of too much injustice to trust that a creator or guiding force is at the controls. And if there is a God, he's asleep on the fucking job.

Lost in his own mind, Alex stays there under the water until it runs lukewarm and John's knocking at the bathroom door.

"Babe, you okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I'll be out in a minute."

Alex hurries through soaping and shampooing, because he doesn't know how much time he's lost in here. It would be rude to make John wait any longer.

If John sees Alex's red-rimmed eyes when he emerges from the bathroom, he doesn't mention it, just holds Alex a little tighter when they go to bed and lets Alex stain the front of his t-shirt with silent tears.

* * *

"Hey, Ged. Sorry I just took off, and I'm really sorry I didn't get to say goodbye. I just... Everything's all fucked up, and I don't... I don't know if I'm coming back. John's with me, so I'm not alone. Don't tell anyone I called you. Please. And don't freak out. You're freaking out right now, aren't you? Anyway, I just wanted to say goodbye. Take care of yourself, Ged, okay? You have no idea what's out there... Bye."

* * *

This is what happens. You're a budding twenty-one year-old musician, playing your aggressively-loud rock music in a dingy bar. The floors are sticky with beer and other fluids. After the show, while your bandmates are loading equipment into a rented van, you hang back for a drink.

You are approached by an average-looking man. There is nothing particularly remarkable about him, and in the dim light of the bar you can't make out much anyway. He tells you he works for a record label and thinks your band could be a hit. He pays for your drink and offers you a joint in his van. You have a gut feeling that following him is a bad idea, but you want so badly to get your band signed onto the fast-track to success that you go with him.

One joint won't hurt. Geddy and John won't even know you're gone.

His van is parked in an alley across from the bar. He climbs inside, turns on the heater and the radio before sitting beside you. The Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter" is playing, and unbeknownst to you, you will never be able to listen to this song again.

He compliments you again, likening your guitar work to that of Jimmy Page. You are still coming down from the high of a great performance, so it never occurs to you that he is plying you with his praise. He lights up a joint, offering you the first drag. The smoke feels good in your throat, in your nostrils. You hand the joint back, basking in the gentle sting of the herb.

He asks you about your band, how long you have been playing, simple questions to put you at ease with the situation. You trade the joint back and forth. Everything seems normal until he starts rubbing your knee.

You feel a churning in your belly, anxiety that he has grossly misread this situation. You move your knee away, but his hand goes for your thigh next. Acid rises in the back of your mouth. You tell him to stop, but he doesn't. The weed is stronger than what you're used to, and it has made you slow and sluggish. He's on you immediately, positioned between your legs so you can't kick him away. His hands are iron fetters around your wrists. His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise.

He is not gentle and sweet like John is. He is not John. He is cruel and hard and selfish. This is all wrong.

This is not your fault.

* * *

Another night, another motel. This time, they're stationed just outside of Goulais Bay in a ramshackle building that seems to rattle when the wind blows. Alex holes up in the shower long enough that John barges into the small, aged-yellow bathroom.

"If you're not gonna save any hot water for me, I guess I'll just join you."

Alex can see John's blurry figure through the shower curtain. John strips off his clothes and pushes the curtain aside. Even though they've been together for years, Alex is still stricken by John's impressive nudity. He backs up against the slippery tile wall as John steps inside.

"C'mon," John murmurs, stealing a kiss as he presses himself against Alex. "Let's help you forget about this shitshow, huh?" He nips at Alex's mouth while one hand rubs his thigh. It's soft, soothing, familiar, but there's a sick feeling in Alex's gut.

John doesn't know.

John doesn't fucking _know_.

Alex raises his hands to push John away, but he pauses, curling his fingers around John's wrist as he tweaks a nipple. This is the man he loves, not some stranger with weed on his breath. When they were fumbling through sexual overtures at the start of their relationship, John would stroke him and suck him without expecting anything in return. He would never hurt Alex, wouldn't make him do anything he didn't want.

Alex lets John's hands settle on his waist, lets him claim his mouth with deep kisses. John is hard and insistent against Alex's thigh, but he's not doing anything about it, focused on making Alex feel good. Alex shivers as John trails a hand over his stomach and to his cock. His warm fingers make Alex's dick twitch, slow to respond but intrigued all the same.

They're kissing and breathing into each other, lukewarm water spitting onto them from the shower head. John tilts the nozzle so it's pointed straight at the drain, and Alex feels the cold void of air against his skin. He toys with Alex's cock, his thumb teasing the head until his dick stiffens. Alex doesn't know what's wrong with his body. Maybe he's not supposed to want this after what's happened to him. Maybe he's supposed to swear off sex and intimacy forever, let his pain consume the rest of his days.

"You've got such a pretty cock," John says around Alex's mouth, still working him in his hand.

_You're a pretty little thing, huh?_

Alex shivers and squirms. A playful response bubbles out of his throat, but there's a barely contained panic that John must hear. "How many have you seen?"

"Once you've seen the best, you don't need the rest." John smirks and squeezes Alex's hips.

Alex sucks in a breath, and it's undoubtedly a pain sound. John eases his grip, aware that he's hurt him.

"Shit, sorry, did I-" John's hands fall to his waist. Alex follows John's wounded gaze to the purplish-yellow bruises on his hips. "Oh God."

Shamed, Alex wants to hide the blemishes, but he can't because he's naked and pressed against the tile wall. He ends up wrapping his arms around his middle, hugging himself like he's cold.

"Oh God. Alex."

Alex inhales a sharp thready gasp that makes his chest jump. He's not going to cry, because the ordeal is over, but watching John slowly understand what happened is like being violated all over again, and something's building up in Alex's chest so tight and insistent it comes out in ragged noises erupting from his throat like gunfire.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I didn't—" John rakes a hand through his wet hair, blinking water out of his lashes. "I wouldn't have—"

"It's okay," Alex says, even though there's nothing okay about any of this. He slides to the floor of the basin, drained. He wants to be left alone, but he also wants John to hold him until the water runs cold.

John joins Alex there on the shower floor, sitting in the one inch of water courtesy of the shitty shower drain, and gets his arms around him. Before he buries his face in John's throat, Alex catches a glance at his expression, and John looks like this has carved him to pieces.

John wasn't supposed to break too.

* * *

_They travel on the road to redemption_

_A highway out of yesterday - that tomorrow will bring_

_Like lovers and heroes, birds in the last days of spring_

_We're only at home when we're on the wing_

* * *

They're driving past Chippewa Falls when Alex turns down the radio and says, "Talk to me."

John has been uncharacteristically quiet ever since he discovered the extent of Alex's injuries. They didn't go out for breakfast, just subsisted on gas station snacks, and Alex feels like that's partly his fault; going to breakfast would mean talking to Alex over bacon and scrambled eggs, and apparently John would rather wreck his blood sugar with junk food than risk an awkward conversation.

John glances over at him, his face unreadable. His hair billows in the breeze from the open window. "About what? What that bastard did to you?"

"No..." Alex worries a used cigarette butt between his fingers. "I just wish you wouldn't be so quiet. It's not like you."

John's hands tighten around the steering wheel hard enough to make the leather creak. "All I can think about is how you got those bruises. And how maybe things would've been different if I'd just..." He makes an angry sound of confusion. "I don't know. I could have stopped him. I could have protected you."

"It's not your job to protect me."

"I'd be a lousy boyfriend if I didn't try."

"Well, you'll drive yourself crazy thinking about what could have been." Alex watches the trees bearing warm-hued leaves pass by on either side of the skinny, two-lane road.

"I wish I'd killed him."

"I think you might have anger issues," Alex jokes. "Is that why you chose an instrument you get to hit with sticks?"

John's mouth twitches into a half-assed smile. "I wish I'd killed him because you've suffered enough."

"Stop, you know it turns me on when you get all protective."

"I thought it wasn't my job to protect you."

"You'd be a lousy boyfriend if you didn't try."

John snickers, his nose crinkling as he laughs, and Alex feels a wave of fondness burst in his chest.

* * *

They run out of gas, ironically, in Marathon, and filling up the tank depletes most of their funds. John rolls them into a bar to hustle pool. Alex doesn't know whether to stay close to John or keep his distance; he'd appreciate the comfort of being close to someone familiar, but that clingyness might be a neon sign broadcasting his vulnerability.

Killing someone isn't as empowering as Alex thought it might be. It has only given him more things to fear, more reasons to sleep with one eye open. He thought he'd be able to walk into any place on earth and fear nothing, knowing what he's capable of. But he doesn't want to relive either part of that horrible experience ever again, and that paralyzes him.

He sits at the bar, close enough to watch John work his magic on the pool table, and sips idly at watered-down beer. He is surrounded on both sides by intimidating-looking men, probably truckers or motorcyclists. The air is hazy and brittle with cigarette smoke, saturating Alex's hair and his clothes, the Maple Leafs jersey he borrowed from John's bag this morning. The smoke stings his eyes. He hasn't smoked a cigarette since the incident, shying away from anything even faintly resembling the marijuana joint he'd smoked that night.

Alex counts six songs on the jukebox before the alcohol makes his eyelids heavy and his depth perception murky. John used to tease him about being a lightweight and having to carry Alex to bed after one too many drinks. Alex has many fuzzy recollections of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed with no memory of how he'd gotten there.

He orders a soda to combat the stultifying effects of the booze. The bartender is a cute brunette who, in another life, Alex might be attracted to; she smiles at him with ruby lips and says it's on the house.

John isn't so much hustling pool as he is a skilled player. Geddy used to jokingly call him Minnesota Fats, and Alex would get this puzzled look on his face, and Geddy would respond with a teasing, "'The Hustler'? Read a book, Lerxst."

_Geddy..._

Alex hopes Geddy's doing okay. It's not the most promising of signs to have two of your bandmates abandon you without notice. Geddy has already lost his father, now he's lost two of his closest friends. Here one day, gone the next.

They hurt a lot of people when they ran. Alex never considered the good things he was leaving behind, too focused on escaping the scene of the crime.

This is why Alex shouldn't drink. He gets introspective and his thoughts fall apart when something snags on a memory, and he goes tumbling down a rabbit hole of reminiscence.

Alex cycles between staring at the melting ice in his glass and staring at John. The snap of a lighter registers in his right ear.

Then an achingly familiar scent fills his nose, and bile rises in his throat.

The man on Alex's right has lit up a skinny joint. Cloying smoke billows from the ashy end and right into Alex's face. The bartender doesn't seem to care, and it's not like Alex is going to be a killjoy and ask the guy to put it out. That seems like a recipe for more bruises and possibly broken bones.

Alex holds his breath, his heart racing like it's going to burst out of his chest. Is he dying? Is this a heart attack? His lungs feel shriveled, craving oxygen. He takes a breath.

The smell wallops him right back to the inside of that van, to the panicked loss of control, to the ganja on the man's breath.

With a shaking hand, Alex drops some change onto the counter and flees the bar.

John comes to the car ten minutes later to find Alex curled up in the passenger seat. "You okay?" John says, opening the driver's door and sliding into the seat. "You'll freeze to death if you put your mind to it."

"Sorry." Alex is wrapped in John's jacket. It smells like leather, French fries, and John's cologne. "I just had a bit of a freak-out. I'm fine."

John opens his mouth like he wants to poke at that, but seems to change his mind. "It's probably best if we leave anyway. I was starting to piss those guys off." He turns over the engine and backs out of the nearly-empty parking lot.

"You have to lose a few games to make them think they have a chance."

"Well, fuck that. I'm impatient, and I needed the money. The sooner we get to your folks' place, the better."

Alex nods, and John gets them on the road to the nearest motel.

* * *

The next evening, they stop at a quaint little inn just outside of Winnipeg. The sky has gone dark with remnants of twilight fading fast in the distance. Alex is sluggish and sleepy, his previous night's slumber disturbed by nightmares. John leads him up the cobblestone pathway to the front porch and opens the door.

A bell jingles as they step inside. The interior of the inn looks like a cozy farmhouse. There's white vintage wood-paneled walls, smooth brick-paved floors, small framed paintings of landscapes, a bronze chicken statuette on a nearby end table, and a wall clock that might have been made in the 1800s.

As Alex is taking in his surroundings, a man appears in the entryway to the main room. "Oh, hello! Will you two be staying the night?" He looks about their age, his brown hair messy but shorter than both Alex and John's. He's wearing a striped sweater and blue jeans that have certainly seen better days.

"If you've got room," John says.

"You're in luck." The man slips behind the front desk and checks them in, taking John's payment of twenty-five dollars. He doesn't even question their request for a single room with one bed, which immediately eases a good chunk of Alex's anxiety. "So where are you two headed?"

Alex and John answer at the same time.

"Fernie."

"Alaska."

The man chuckles. "What's in Alaska?"

"I'm surprised you didn't ask 'what's in Fernie?'" Alex says in an infrequent moment of humor.

"Alaska's further north, so whatever's there must be important to travel all that way."

Alex shrugs. "A new start, I guess." He doesn't want to reveal too much about himself, but this guy seems trustworthy, and considering what Alex has been through that's saying a lot.

"Well, I hope you find it." He hands them their room keys. "Your room is upstairs, first on the left. Would you care for dinner, or would you rather settle in for the night?"

"I'm starved," John says. "What do you have?"

"Aw, man."

Alex snickers. "You don't like cooking?"

"Well, my parents own the place, and they usually take care of all that. But they're out of town this week and I'm—shall we say—woefully unprepared for cooking anything more complicated than toast or scrambled eggs."

"Well, um, if you've got a kitchen and a full fridge, I can do the cooking," Alex says. He wants to help but isn't sure if the suggestion is presumptuous.

"Yeah, Alex is a great cook," John adds.

The man looks stunned that Alex even offered. "Wow, really? That's—that would really help me out. By all means, go ahead." He leads them down the hall and into the kitchen. "My name's Neil, by the way."

"Alex."

"John."

"Nice to meet you both."

The kitchen is medium-sized with hanging cabinets, a tiled counter, various cooking implements on shelves, and a pot of (presumably fake) sunflowers on the counter underneath the window near the sink. Alex immediately begins raiding the fridge, searching for the perfect combination of ingredients.

"Neil, what do you eat?" Alex asks, pushing aside chilled soda cans and a jug of sweet tea.

"You're cooking for me, too?"

"Well, yeah. It would be rude to only make enough for two. Plus you own the place, so I gotta feed you."

"That's really nice of you," Neil says. "I'm not picky. Make whatever you'd like."

Given permission, Alex starts pulling items out of the fridge. He has decided to make soup, because it's simple and he could use something warm right about now. "John, why don't you go upstairs and get a shower while there's still hot water?"

"Are you sure?" John says after a moment. "I don't want..." He doesn't finish that, but he doesn't need to. This would be the first time Alex has been left alone with a stranger since the incident.

"I'll be okay. I can take care of myself." Alex glances over his shoulder to see John eyeing Neil with suspicion. "Really. It'll be fine."

John huffs a frustrated noise Alex knows very well. "Alright. I won't take long."

Alex turns his head to make sure John actually leaves the room. When he hears John's footsteps on the stairs, he starts dicing the carrots, squash, and celery.

"He's pretty intense," Neil says once they're alone.

Alex hears the drag of a chair against the floor. A quick glance tells him Neil's sitting at the table. "Yeah. Sorry. He's a little overprotective."

"It's understandable. How long have you two known each other?"

"Oh jeez, a long time. I think it's been seven years."

"That's quite a while." Neil seems to be dancing around the subject of Alex and John's relationship. "Where are you from?"

"Toronto." Alex's hands shake as he works the knife. The last time he held one he cut a man's throat. "Well, I was born in Fernie, but I don't think that counts 'cause I only lived there a little while." He's rambling, because his floppy sleeves are pushed up around the middle of his forearms, exposing the yellowing bruises on his wrists.

"Your folks still live there?"

"Yeah, they moved back a few years ago. I guess city life just wasn't for them."

"I can understand that. I enjoy solitude more than most, so living here is nice for me," Neil says. "The city isn't too far, but it's not so close that you hear all the traffic and hustle. It's peaceful. Relaxing."

Alex wonders about that. Would he be happy somewhere quiet, or would the lack of noise draw to the forefront all the thoughts he's been repressing? Maybe he needs the din of a big city to drown it all out, white noise to disrupt the signals of his subconscious mind.

"Do you need some help?" Neil says, suddenly nearby, reaching to open the refrigerator, and Alex jumps. The knife clatters onto the countertop. "I don't know much about cooking, but I can follow directions."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to startle a guy holding a knife?" Alex gasps.

"She might've left that part out of my education. I guess she figured it was common sense." Neil opens the fridge and retrieves a soda can.

Alex watches Neil, his nerves jittery, and sees the way Neil's gaze momentarily snags on his bruised wrists. Alex pushes his sleeves down.

"John didn't do this, okay?" Alex pleads, his voice breaking. "I know that's what everyone thinks, but it's bullshit. I can't—I won't stay here if you think he could—" Alex doesn't want to voice even the hypothetical possibility that John would ever hurt him. It's incomprehensible.

"I believe you."

A moment passes by with no sound but the rattling hum of the air conditioner.

"You're trying to get away from someone, huh?"

Alex glances away like Neil's stabbed someplace deep that he can't deal with.

"Is that why you're headed to Alaska?"

Alex manages a nod. "It was just... I don't know. I thought I'd feel safer if I was really far away."

Neil moves back to the table, giving Alex some space and breathing room. "Alaska certainly is far, but there's not a lot of sunlight. That can mess with your head, and if you're already dealing with some heavy stuff..." He shrugs. "It might be a good idea to consider some alternatives."

"Like where?"

"Why not stay near your parents?"

"That's the first place they'd think to look."

"Oh. Right. Well, Vancouver is nice. It's a big city, like you're used to. It's easy to blend in. To hide. If you live close to the water, you've got a beautiful view. It's worth visiting, at least, if you're headed that way."

"Are you part of their tourism board?"

Neil chuckles. "I visited a few years ago. I keep meaning to go back, but life gets in the way."

Alex laughs a bitter sound. "A friend of mine used to say, 'man plans, God laughs.'"

That makes Neil smirk. "What were your plans back home?"

Alex takes hold of the knife again and continues dicing. "John and I were in a band. We were gonna be rock stars. Y'know, that old story. I played guitar. John was a drummer." The past tense feels important somehow, as though they've left that part of their lives behind, too.

"Ah, a fellow drummer?"

"You play, too?"

"Recreationally. I spent a couple years over in England trying to make it as a musician. You can probably guess it didn't pan out. So I came back here to help my parents run this place."

"It's probably for the best we had to leave," Alex says after a moment, mostly thinking aloud. "With John's health problems I don't think we would've been able to tour much. He would've driven himself into the ground trying to keep up with us."

He's certainly not going to say the tremendous load of shit life dumped on him is, in any way, a blessing in disguise, but in moments of detachment he can almost see a thin, nearly-invisible silver lining. He has to find the good, however negligible, or else life doesn't make any sense.

By the time John comes downstairs, the soup is simmering on the stovetop. Alex is sitting across from Neil at the table, engrossed in a game of poker.

"You guys getting along?"

"Alex has already given me a nickname," Neil says, "which I think means we're friends."

"His name's Pratt now," Alex announces, momentarily glancing up from his cards to catch the edge of a smile on John's mouth. "Y'know he went over to England to be a drummer?"

"Ah, so he's intimately familiar with the double meaning of that nickname." John pushes a hand through Alex's hair, gentle and loving, before taking one of the empty seats.

Alex feels chills, because John hasn't really touched him since their aborted attempt at shower sex the other night. Is it weird that he wants to be touched? Maybe if John touches him enough it will erode Alex's sense memory of the abuse. He doesn't want to associate orgasms with shame and hurt and humiliation forever. That's a worst-case scenario, and that's bullshit. Before all of this happened Alex had a healthy sexual appetite, but now he's afraid of wanting the things he wants, afraid that how he's feeling isn't the Appropriate Emotional Response.

Alex gets up to tend to the pot of soup on the stove.

"So you're a drummer, too, huh?" John asks Neil.

"Yeah, I know all the jokes."

"How does a drummer start a fire?"

"He rubs his two IQ points together!"

They both laugh like that's the funniest thing they've ever heard. Alex rolls his eyes with an amused smile. It seems Neil shares their sense of humor.

Over dinner, Neil and John trade drummer jokes and stories. Alex stays mostly silent, content listening to them talk and laugh. He hasn't heard John laugh very much since this whole ordeal started, but Alex hasn't been his usual comical self either.

When he's finished eating, Alex goes upstairs to the room while John and Neil linger in the kitchen. He takes a hot shower and loses a chunk of time in a thoughtless daze. This happens to him frequently now, long stretches of time lost in moments of numb nothingness. He will zone out in one small town and come to in another, with no memory of the interim.

He soaps up and off in a hurry, unaware of how much time he has lost here. He dries off and steps out to the bedroom for a change of clothes. John is lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He turns his head to look at Alex, and he blushes at the sight of him with a towel around his waist.

"Neil's letting me store my insulin in the fridge," John says. He's been keeping it in a cooler filled with ice since they left Toronto.

"I had a good feeling about him. I kinda wanna stay here, just for a few days."

John blinks, his expression curious.

"I mean, I wanna keep moving and get further away, but that can't be good for you."

"Don't stop on my account," John says gently.

Alex sits on the bed, careful to position his legs so John can't peek up his towel. "Well, there's other reasons too. I like that I can cook here. And Neil is a nice guy, and having someone like him around makes me feel... like things are normal again, y'know? Like we're not hiding or running from anything."

John lifts a hand like he's going to lay it over Alex's knee, but withdraws, instead lacing his own fingers together. "Alright, we'll hang around for a bit."

Alex reaches out to him, gliding his hand up John's arm. "It's okay to touch me. Please. I want you to."

John catches Alex's fingers. His touch is smooth and feather-soft. "I don't wanna hurt you or remind you of something awful."

"You won't. But even if you do, it'll be okay. We'll deal with it."

John nods and eventually slides a hand over Alex's knee and up his thigh, and Alex is so fucking attracted to him, ecstatic that John isn't making him feel guilty for wanting this. He moves so he's straddling John's hips, and John rises up to kiss his mouth, as though magnetically drawn there.

Alex pushes his hands into John's hair. John kisses Alex's lips, his chin, the corner where his jaw and ear meet that makes Alex shiver. His hands are gently exploratory, climbing up Alex's thighs before finding the narrow slope of his waist. Alex's cock stiffens, eagerly responding to the touch, and he gasps around John's mouth. John kisses his throat, his chest, before dipping his head down to toy with a nipple. Alex makes a breathy noise and settles into John's lap. John is already hard, and Alex grinds his ass against his erection.

John groans a throaty, sexy sound Alex has only rarely heard. He definitely wants to hear that again. Alex rolls his hips back, and John swears and sighs into Alex's chest. One of his hands tugs at the towel until it falls away, and he gets his fingers around Alex's dick.

"Please, please," Alex coaxes, because he wants John to know it's okay. They begin to move together, John rocking his hips as Alex grinds down, his fist squeezing and stroking. Alex takes John's face in his hands and steals the sighs from his mouth. This feels familiar and good and completely different from his bad experience. John infuses every touch with love, and it fills Alex up in a way that fizzes and sparkles and makes it all so much more intense.

"I love you," Alex breathes, and John crumbles, smothering a shuddery noise into Alex's shoulder as he comes. Alex keeps moving his hips to help John through the aftershocks and accelerate his own orgasm, because John's hand has stalled around his cock. But Alex doesn't need much coaxing; listening to John pant and moan turns him on enough to get him there, and once John's thumbing at the swollen head of his cock, Alex is seeing stars.

"Neil probably heard you," Alex teases as he catches his breath.

John chuckles lazy laughter into Alex's chest. "Mm, don't care."

Alex sighs happily and rests his head in the slope between John's shoulder and neck, winding his arms around him.

"You're not a burden, okay?" John murmurs. "I don't want you to feel like you have to compromise anything because of me. I'll be fine."

"I still want to stay," Alex says after a moment. "Just for a few days."

"Sure. Whatever you want, babe."

* * *

The next morning Alex prepares biscuits with sausage gravy for breakfast, much to the delight of Neil, who seems to regard everything Alex does in the kitchen as magic.

"When did you learn how to cook?" Neil asks, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

"You mean when I wasn't learning guitar?" Alex chuckles. "My mom collected cookbooks and recipes. And after my sister was born I had to help around the house. It was just something I enjoyed doing, I guess. So I got good at it. And when John and I moved in together, it became sort of a necessity to cook for him." Alex realizes how that sounds. "Not in a demanding, horrible way. Just... We moved in when we were eighteen, so he didn't have any experience living on his own. And he's kinda lazy."

John comes downstairs and into the kitchen, as though hearing Alex's playful derision. "Drummers can't be lazy. We have the most athletic job in the whole band."

Alex scoffs. "Whatever, all you do is hit stuff with sticks."

"Hold me back, Neil," John says, feigning outrage, and Alex laughs.

They stay for three more days. Alex eagerly volunteers to cook for the occasional guest who wanders in for an overnight stay, for which Neil cuts their lodging fee in half. In the evenings, Alex and John sit outside on the back porch and watch the ducks swim across the small lake. John entwines his fingers with Alex's own, and Alex leans his head on John's shoulder as John rocks them back and forth on the porch swing.

"I like it here," Alex says on the third evening, snuggled close to John.

"Alaska's gonna be a big change for you."

"We're not going to Alaska anymore. Neil didn't tell you?"

" _You_ didn't tell me."

"Sorry." Alex smiles to himself, rubbing a hand over John's knee. "Neil told me we should try to settle somewhere in Vancouver. He says it's nice. And probably better for us."

"Then that's where we'll go."

"Really? How come you're all 'whatever you want, Alex'? Don't you have any opinions on anything?"

"I do, but I keep 'em to myself. I can't even imagine the kind of shit you're going through. All I can do is try to make you happy."

"How did I get so lucky to end up with you?"

"You've got good taste," John says, pulling his arm tighter around Alex's middle.

Before they leave the next morning, Alex throws his pocket knife into the lake.

* * *

_We travel in the dark of the new moon_

_A starry highway traced on the map of the sky_

_Like lovers and heroes, lonely as the eagle's cry_

_We're only at home when we're on the fly_

* * *

It doesn't take them very long to get to Fernie. Alex's parents' house is not the same one in which he grew up; they have upgraded to a cozy, two-story log cabin nestled in the woodsy outskirts of the small town. Alex recognizes both cars in the driveway as belonging to his parents. The cops wouldn't walk to the house. They'd bring a car. So it's probably safe to drop in for a visit.

Mom sweeps Alex in for a hug immediately after she opens the door. "Oh, my boy, it's so good to see you! And you brought John, too!" Mom always liked John, would jokingly refer to him as her second son when Alex brought him around. "What brings you two out here?"

"We're going to Vancouver," Alex says, feeling both weakened and protected in his mother's embrace.

"You've been there before, you know," Mom says, kissing John's cheek and letting them inside the warm house. "When you were about six years old."

"But I don't remember." Alex remembers the stories though, because Mom constantly reminds him of things he did and places he went as a child, none of which he recalls with any real clarity.

"Well, you can blame your father for that. I told him to wait until you were older, but it's not like we were going to go by ourselves and leave you with a sitter."

The inside of the house is a bizarro version of the childhood home Alex remembers. The furniture and décor is all the same, but it's arranged differently, the floorplan of the house altered enough to be distinguishable from the old one. Alex has never been here before, but he remembers the address from sending Christmas cards and receiving letters.

Mom looks around the living room. "Your father must still be in the basement. You boys make yourselves at home," she says before heading downstairs to fetch Dad.

John takes in the high ceiling, smooth wood-paneled walls and stone fireplace. "Are your parents secretly millionaires?"

"Dad's business does pretty well, I guess."

"What's he do again? Construction? Painting houses?"

Alex makes a face.

"That was a Mafia joke, babe. Read a book."

"I thought drummers didn't know how to read."

John does this adorable thing with his mouth where he pouts to hide the fact that he's smiling. "Stop making me want to kiss you. We're in your parents' house. It's weird."

"That didn't stop you when we were sixteen," Alex says, lifting an eyebrow. He moves closer to put his hands on John's waist, but the basement door opens and Mom and Dad emerge.

"Ah, so good to see my favorite son!" Dad says. "Oh, and you brought Alex, too!"

Alex rolls his eyes. "Ha-ha." Sometimes he regrets getting his sense of humor from his father. "Nice to see you too, Dad."

Dad sweeps them both into a hug that gets Alex a little teary-eyed. He still smells like sandalwood and Old Spice. "Will you be staying the night?"

Alex chuckles nervously. "Well, that kinda depends."

"On what?"

"How the rest of the evening goes."

"You simply must stay," Mom insists. "I don't like the idea of you boys driving alone at night. And there's no sense in paying for a motel when you've got a perfectly nice rent-free room upstairs."

"Thanks," Alex says softly, and a myriad of feelings begin to twist and pull at his insides.

He volunteers to prepare dinner, though Mom can't seem to stop herself from offering a helping hand. The kitchen is warm and spacious and inviting, with every modern convenience, and the refrigerator is stocked with more food than Alex knows what to do with. He settles on fried pork chops with mushroom gravy.

Over dinner, Alex fends off questions that poke at the real reason he's here. John's pretty skilled at steering the conversation toward innocuous topics, but Mom and Dad are equally skilled at finding ways to veer back to subjects that make Alex squirm in his chair.

"How must your girlfriend feel about you running off to the other side of the country?" Dad asks.

"Well, if I had one, she probably wouldn't be too happy about it. But since I don't..."

"Do you still play in your band?" Mom wonders.

"No, we're not really... We don't play together anymore."

"Did you have an argument with Geddy? Whatever it is, I'm sure you could work it out. You got along so well."

"It's not... It doesn't have anything to do with Geddy," Alex says, his voice growing softer.

Underneath the table, John takes Alex's hand in his own and gives it a tender squeeze.

"Something is wrong, isn't it?" Mom says, as though aware she's treading water. "Alex?"

Alex's lower lip quivers. He wants to tell them, to get it all off his chest, but he doesn't want to face the terrifiying possibility that his parents' love for him is conditional.

"I killed someone," he confesses, because he thinks that's the worst part, the part he can't come back from.

Mom gasps. Dad's expression shifts into something unreadable.

When Alex was younger, he hated the idea of killing a living creature, instead corralling out of the house any insect or rodent that found its way inside. His father once took him fishing, but Alex started crying when he realized it meant killing the fish.

So his parents must understand that the blood on his hands was shed in necessity, that he took no pleasure in it.

"Because he hurt you?" Dad says.

Alex nods, trying to stop shaking. John squeezes his hand tighter. "I had to run. I didn't—I didn't have a choice. No one would believe me if I said—" Alex takes a breath. "You can't tell anyone I was here or where I'm going or that I told you anything. Please."

"Of course. I'm your mother. It's my job to protect you."

Dad's brow furrows. "This man should count himself lucky he is already dead."

John leans in and murmurs, "You sure your dad's not a mobster?" at Alex's ear.

Alex huffs a small laugh, and he is so grateful that John can be counted on to make him laugh, that his parents still love and support him, that he is not so broken he cannot find joy in these things.

They decide to stay for the night. The guest bedroom smells of pine leaves and fresh wood. Above the headboard of the bed is a framed serene painting of trees near a lake. A neon beer sign on the wall provides illumination when Alex switches off the bedside lamp.

"It would be really nice to stay here in the winter," John says as he crawls into bed beside Alex, his hair still damp from the shower. "All the snow right outside the window. Drinking hot chocolate by the fireplace."

"You can't even drink hot chocolate," Alex reminds him.

John rolls his eyes like Alex is being ridiculous. "Would you wanna stay here for Christmas?"

"Maybe. If they want us around."

"I don't see why not."

Alex goes quiet and stares at nothing in particular on the ceiling. John curls his fingers around Alex's arm and lifts it to his mouth, kissing the thin skin of his inner wrist. Alex squirms, already turned on by this tender display of affection.

"Stop. I'm not having sex with you in my parents' house," he says through quiet giggles. "Those days are over."

"I'll be quiet, I promise." John kisses his way up Alex's arm, to the back of his hand, to his fingers.

"Where's the fun in that?" Alex shivers; John's mouth is erotic and tantalizing even when it's nowhere near Alex's cock. Alex slips his hand from John's grasp and says, "Still no."

John accepts the rejection without argument, just winds an arm around Alex's hip to bring him closer. Alex turns over and wriggles up against him, and he can feel John's dick, hard against the curve of his ass, but John doesn't push or press. His breath is warm and steady in Alex's hair and the last thing Alex remembers before drifting off.

* * *

Birds chirp outside the window when Alex wakes up the next morning. John is absent from the bed, but Alex reassures himself he couldn't have gone far. He heads to the window, checking for unfamiliar cars in the driveway before going downstairs.

Mom sits at the kitchen table, and she looks up from the newspaper when she hears the stairs creak under Alex's footsteps. "There you are, love. How did you sleep?"

"I didn't wake the house up by screaming, so I guess I'm making progress."

"Always with the jokes," Mom sighs with a hint of endearment.

Alex looks around the empty kitchen and living room. "Where's John?" he says, trying not to sound clingy and pathetic.

"He's in the basement helping your father fix the water heater. Not much of a handyman, is he?"

Alex knows she's referring to John. "He wants to be useful."

"I think your father just wanted to talk to him alone. I heard him asking John to look after you."

Alex is stricken by his father's gesture of kindness. Dad is not prone to emotional speeches or even brief discussions about feelings; he buries his sentimentality in jokes and the occasional grunt meant to substitute for phrases like "I love you" and "You're important to me."

"He actually said that?" Alex wonders.

Mom nods, stirring her morning tea. "You need to look after John too. How is he doing?"

Alex pulls up a chair and joins Mom at the table. "He'll be a lot better once we get to Vancouver. He takes a lot of unhealthy shortcuts on my account. He says it's fine, but I know it'll catch up to him eventually." He sighs, staring at his hands, at the nails he's chewed down to stubs. "Does it bother you?"

"What do you mean?"

"That John and I are..." The admission catches in his throat and stays there.

"I am happy you found someone who loves you deeply. I wouldn't want you to be alone right now. I'm sure your father would prefer you with a woman, but he has half a brain in the Old Country anyway. And after what happened to you, he will not dare mention it."

Alex isn't sure how to feel about that. On one hand, he's glad his parents aren't kicking him out of the house and disowning him, but he's kind of disappointed that it took something so awful for them to realize there are worse things than homosexuality that could happen to their son.

Better late than never.

This, Alex thinks, might be that impossibly thin silver lining he'd been searching for.

* * *

They stay another night with Alex's parents. For dinner Alex prepares an elaborate meal of lasagna and garlic bread. The four of them eat at the dining room table and manage to carry on conversation that doesn't dredge up something awful for him. He notices Dad asking John a lot of questions, as though scoping out whether John is capable of protecting Alex now that he knows they're more than friends. John is gracious and sweet and self-effacing, and Alex falls a little deeper in love with him.

The next morning, Mom and Dad give Alex some money for starting over in Vancouver. He promises to call when he and John get settled in. Dad hugs John and murmurs something in his ear Alex can't quite catch. Alex is misty-eyed by the time they get into the car, and he is overwhelmed with emotions he doesn't have words for. Sadness? Regret? Longing?

Alex wipes his teary eyes with the long, floppy sleeves of John's borrowed sweater. John keeps his eyes on the road but occasionally diverts a quick glance at Alex. "I kinda forgot how cool your parents are. Your dad was trying to figure out if I was good enough for you." John laughs to himself. "He tried to teach me how to fix stuff around the house 'cause he said you shouldn't have to do it all."

Alex sniffles, his head turned toward the window so John doesn't see the wetness streaming down his cheeks. But John has known Alex long enough to know when he's upset.

"What's wrong?"

Alex shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. "I feel like that was the last time I'll ever see them. Y'know, like we'll get to Vancouver—or maybe we won't even make it there—and that'll be the end of the line for me. The cops'll find me and—" The rest of it catches in his throat.

John exhales a sigh through his nose. "We can't live like this. We have to figure out how much they know. You might not even be a suspect."

"It happened right outside the venue we were playing. Even if I'm not a suspect, it's gotta be suspicious that we're out of town, right?" Alex chews his already bitten-down nails. "Fuck..."

"Don't bite your nails," John scolds gently, without even turning his head.

It's entirely possible John's only saying that so Alex has something to scratch down his back during sex. Regardless, Alex drops his hand away from his mouth.

"Geddy would know what's going on," John says. "You could call him and see how paranoid we need to be."

Alex likes the idea of talking with Geddy after resigning himself to never speaking with him again. And Geddy would never sell Alex out, never trick him into a taped confession or anything shady. Geddy, it seems, is their best hope.

They settle into a motel in Chilliwack by nightfall. Alex calls Geddy while John takes the shower. As the phone rings on the other end, Alex lifts his fingers to his mouth. Then, reconsidering, he toys with the thick plastic phone cord instead.

He doesn't realize how much he needed to hear Geddy's voice until Geddy says, "Hello?"

"Ged, hey. It's me."

"Alex? Oh my God, are you okay?"

"All things considered... yeah, I guess I'm doing okay."

"And John?"

"John's fine."

"Your message made it sound like you weren't gonna talk to me again," Geddy says, sounding hurt.

"I know. I'm sorry. But I gotta know what we're dealing with. I have to know if John and I can settle down somewhere and not constantly wonder when the other shoe's gonna drop."

"Oh... Well, I don't think the cops suspect you—"

"They talked to you?" Alex asks, his heartbeat accelerating in his chest.

"Yeah, 'cause we were the band that played there. They just wanted to know if we saw anything. I think the running theory is a drug deal gone bad."

"And did they think it was suspicious that John and I are out of town?"

"Maybe, but I told them you were on an anniversary trip."

Alex frowns.

"Don't scowl at me," Geddy says. "It threw them off your trail. They're not gonna suspect some 'long-haired queers' as big-time drug dealers or murderers."

"How sure are you?"

"Lerxst... Unless someone saw you, I think fingerprints would be the only thing that could tie you to the scene."

"And John took care of all that."

"So don't worry. That's my job," Geddy says, and Alex hears the small smile in his voice.

"I never really thanked you for what you did..."

"You don't have to. You're my best friend."

Alex blinks away the clouds that have formed in his eyes. "I'm sorry I ran. I screwed up everything."

"If you feel safer somewhere else, then that's where you need to be. Forget about the band. Taking care of yourself is more important."

More important than John's future, or Geddy's? Alex wants to argue, but that will only aggravate Geddy, and there's nothing he could say to ease Alex's conscience anyway.

A short moment of silence passes. "Is John around?" Geddy asks.

"He's in the shower."

"Tell him to call me, okay? I need to hear his voice, too."

"Yeah. Of course."

* * *

" _We have to leave."_

_Alex finds John loading equipment into their rented van behind the bar in the empty parking lot. Geddy's there too, and he gasps at the sight of Alex's gore-soaked clothes._

" _Holy shit, what happened?"_

_John is at Alex's side immediately, his hands on Alex's shoulders. Reflexively, Alex jerks away from him. John looks hurt, like he doesn't know how to offer comfort if he can't touch Alex._

" _We have to go," Alex manages to say through shaky lungs. "Right now."_

" _Is that your blood?" Geddy asks, staring at Alex with wide eyes._

_Alex shakes his head, pulling at his clothes and wanting them gone. His blouse is warm and damp and horrible, sticking to his skin. The smell of blood lingers in his nose. He doesn't think it will ever leave._

" _Show me," John says. "I'll take care of it."_

" _No, no, let's just get out of here. You can't—If someone sees you—"_

" _The worst that will happen is I get slapped with covering up a crime scene. If we leave now without cleaning up the evidence, your prints or blood or whatever will be there."_

_Alex hadn't thought about that, too caught up in the horror to think clearly._

" _Show me where it happened," John says._

_Alex shakes his head again. Like hell he's going back there. "In an alley across from here. There's a van..."_

" _Okay. I'll take care of it. Ged will take you home and wait with you 'til I get back. Then we'll figure out what to do from there, okay?"_

_How the hell is John so calm in the face of all this?_

_Alex nods, panic bubbling in his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't want to—"_

" _Alex, it's okay," John tells him softly. "You did what you had to do."_

_Alex doesn't know if that's true._

_John gives him a reassuring smile that doesn't reach his eyes and heads for his car. Alex watches him go until Geddy murmurs, "I'll take you home. C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."_

_Alex climbs into the passenger seat, taking care not to smear blood on the leather. The gore is consolidated to Alex's front, so keeping the seat clean isn't too much of a problem. He's shaking like he's cold, and Geddy switches the heater on._

_Geddy doesn't say a word on the drive to Alex and John's apartment. Alex isn't used to Geddy being this quiet—not around him—and his silence feels unusual and wrong somehow, which makes it worse. But Alex doesn't want to talk about what happened, which would likely be the topic of conversation if Geddy did talk, so he stays quiet._

_When they make it home, Alex rushes to the door, hurriedly unlocking it and letting himself inside. He doesn't know how he makes it to the sink before throwing up, but he does, and suddenly Geddy is there, brushing his hair back and keeping him upright._

_Alex shudders, spent, fingers gripping the edge of the sink once he's finished._

" _Go get a shower," Geddy advises. "I'll take care of your clothes."_

_Alex peels off his blouse right there, handing it to Geddy before hurrying to the bathroom. He leaves a trail of bloody clothes in his wake that Geddy picks up as the door shuts._

_Alex doesn't wait for the water to heat up, just steps under the spray and frantically scrubs away the blood sticking to his skin. At his feet, the water is dyed a sickening orange color, which spurs him to scrub harder. He wonders about John, if he managed to clean up the evidence, or if he got caught and won't be coming home._

_The bruises around his wrists look darker now, and Alex discovers there's a matching pair on his hips. His body rolls with a cold sweat like he's going to throw up again, but nothing comes._

_Alex stays in the shower long enough that Geddy knocks on the door to check on him. "You with me, Lerxst?"_

" _Yeah," Alex says, shutting off the spray. He wrings the water out of his hair and grabs a towel, careful not to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the way out. He pulls a set of fresh clothes out of the dresser drawers, settling on a loose sweater of John's and a pair of sweatpants._

_In the living room, Geddy has kindled a fire in the fireplace, presumably using Alex's bloody clothes as fuel. Alex steps out, drying his hair with the towel. He doesn't know what to say to Geddy anymore. He tries to think of words, but each one is wrong, stilted. Not them. They've never had to deal with anything like this. So Alex swallows it down and studies the fire._

* * *

Vancouver reminds Alex of Toronto, a cloistered metropolis of high-rises. The sky is a brilliant blue, the mid-afternoon sun shining as though all is right with the world. They head into the northeastern part of downtown, and Alex watches the buildings scroll by outside the passenger window.

What a thrill it is to move somewhere and not know a soul, to walk away from the past and start anew. There is an elation that comes with anonymity; they could do anything, unbeholden to their past selves. Alex could become a chef at one of the fancy restaurants overlooking the harbour. They could live in a tiny apartment on the east side of the city and fall asleep to the distant rattle and whistle of trains delivering cargo to the port.

John takes Alex on a restaurant crawl through a stretch of Gastown. They eat at Italian bistros, Mexican cafés, burger shacks, Chinese noodle houses. Alex drinks sweet, rich wines while John favors frothy beers. They dine outside at every opportunity, watching tourists and locals walk by.

Their seventh stop is a pizzeria where they share a small pie and enjoy the view of the rails giving way to the waterfront. The breeze flutters Alex's hair enough that he has to keep tucking wild strands behind his ears.

"You remember any of this?" John says, his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket.

Alex rolls his eyes with affection. "Shut up. I was six."

"Your mom seems to think you remember."

"Because I kinda do. But none of it is really clear. There are brief little flickers, but it's kinda like looking through a pinhole. You don't get the whole picture." Alex wipes his fingers on a napkin. "I think it was around Halloween, because I feel like there was a haunted house by the hotel we were staying at. Or maybe it was just somebody's Halloween decorations. And I vaguely remember walking around some part of the city, maybe near a park? But, yeah, it's super hazy and doesn't feel real."

"Well, if we stay you'll be able to make memories you can actually hold on to."

"If?"

John spreads his arms a bit, which just makes him look like he's trying to use the sides of his jacket as lazy wings. "It's all up to you. If you don't like it here, we'll find someplace else."

"Please tell me you actually have an opinion on where we live," Alex sighs.

"I do. But I'm not picky. I guess my only stipulation is 'not Alaska.'"

Alex groans, "Oh God," because if he hadn't discussed his future plans with Neil they'd be headed there right now, and John would have resigned himself to being miserable for Alex's sake.

"It just seems really boring and lonely. And I don't own a coat for every day of the week. Nor do I want to."

"You should've said something."

"I would have probably faked car trouble when we passed through a city I could tolerate," John says with an impish smile. "Something to keep us there for a day or two while I showed you around, and you'd come to like the place and decide to stay."

"That sounds an awful lot like what you're doing right now. Except for the car trouble."

John winks and downs a gulp of beer. "How are you feeling?"

Alex chews that over, buying time to think of a response beyond his usual shrug. "I don't know. I mean, obviously I'm still paranoid and I think some part of me always will be. And I'll never get that image out of my head. But the other part..." He sighs, wipes his hands again. "Can I be totally honest with you?"

"Always."

"I think I'm okay. Or at least I know I'm gonna be. It was scary and humiliating, but I survived, y'know? That doesn't mean it's okay that it happened, but... I feel like I've fallen apart as much as I'm going to, I guess. That seems like a healthy attitude, but then I feel like I'm doing it wrong, like my whole life should be ruined and I should be having this huge breakdown over it."

"The only way you should be feeling is how you're feeling."

"Did you read that on a poorly-translated fortune cookie?"

John smirks. His hair flutters in the gentle breeze, and Alex wants to lean across the table and kiss him.

Later, they watch the sun set over the harbour at Portside Park. They sit on a lush incline, and John takes off his sandals to wiggle his toes in the grass. The sky is a muddy pastel blue, with fluffy lines of pink nearing the glowing horizon. Toward the hills of North Vancouver, lights sparkle on the other shore.

Alex could sit here all night, watching the sun give way to the moon. "Neil was right," he says. "I like it here. What about you?"

"Yeah, I can dig it. Anywhere's good, as long as you're there."

"Sap," Alex jokes, giving him a playful shove. "C'mon, have an actual opinion about something."

"Alright..." John looks across the tranquil water. "I like being close to the water. I like how the city has a bunch of smaller, diverse cities inside of it, instead of Toronto where it's just one big cluster of everything. I want to fall asleep to the faint sound of trains. And I love how beautiful you look right now in the half-light of dusk."

Alex snorts a laugh and turns his head to hide his reddening cheeks. "I don't think that last one is location-specific." They've been together for so long yet Alex still gets flustered when John compliments him.

"And I love the way you blush when I flirt with you," John continues, egging him on.

Alex lovingly smacks John's arm. "Shut up."

John chuckles and settles back against the green. Alex follows him, gazing at the mountains and the city lights in the distance. The long blades of grass tickle his face, his hands. "Can I tell you something really fucked up?"

"Well, you can't _not_ tell me now."

Alex tugs at the grass, a physical manifestation of his nervous energy. He knows John wouldn't abandon him or judge him for what he's about to say. But talking about it makes it real instead of just a shameful secret inside his own head.

"It was over when I killed him," Alex says in a very quiet voice.

John's head tips a little to get a better look at him.

"It wasn't self-defense. Not really. He wasn't gonna kill me so I'd keep quiet. He knew exactly what would happen if I went to the cops. They wouldn't believe me. 'Bullshit, men can't get raped.'" And there it is. The first time he's said it out loud.

John is quiet for a moment, furtively entwining his fingers with Alex's own. "Don't feel bad about it. He deserved it."

"Doesn't mean it was right. I mean, look at Superman. He's the world's most popular superhero, and he doesn't even kill villains who destroy entire cities. Those guys probably kill thousands of people, but Superman doesn't kill them back."

"Y'know, the original Superman was pretty badass. They toned him down in the '40s, but from the start he didn't give a shit if tossing a dude out a window meant killing him."

"Why are you like this?" Alex wonders with a teasing grin.

"'Cause it annoys you." John squeezes Alex's hand. "I know you wouldn't harm an innocent person, babe. You're not built that way. And now that he's gone, he can't hurt anyone else. You did the world a favor."

"I'm not built like you either," Alex says. "If you were in my shoes you wouldn't lose any sleep over it. But I can't just not care that I killed someone. I think that's the one part I'll never get over. Is that totally backwards?"

"Backwards according to who? People who've never gone through what you did? Fuck 'em. I'll kick the ass of anyone who gives you shit."

Alex rubs a hand over John's bicep. "Don't try to be macho. It's so embarrassing."

"I seem to recall you saying my protectiveness was a turn-on."

"I was just trying to make you feel better."

"Ouch."

They lie there for a while, watching the sun disappear. John is quiet, and Alex pokes his arm and asks, "Hey, I didn't hurt your feelings, did I? I was joking."

John huffs a soft laugh. "I know. I'm just tired."

"Well, then we should find a motel." Alex pushes himself up, brushes off his jeans. He offers John his hand. "I'll drive."

* * *

_We travel on the road to adventure_

_On a desert highway straight to the heart of the sun_

_Like lovers and heroes, and the restless part of everyone_

_We're only at home when we're on the run_

_On the run..._


End file.
